


Ab Initio

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fiction, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-04
Updated: 2004-11-04
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Before doomed Mulder goes to Oregon to search for the ship, Krycek needs his own closure.





	Ab Initio

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Ab Initio

### Ab Initio

#### by Griva

  


Ab Initio* (prequel to Scars series)  
Krycek POV. Muddled musings and unhealthy fantasies. Then reality. Krycek needs closure too. Timeline: Requiem. Afternoon/night before Mulder goes to Oregon. Rating: NC-17.  
Disclaimer: 1013, CC, blah blah. Not mine. Notes: Can be read either before or after the rest of Scars stories. What matters is the change Krycek undergoes. Bear hugs to Elly for beta. Notes/translations marked with * are at the end of each part. 

* * *

part 1/2 

Dead, dead, he's dead. If I wasn't a schizoid introvert, I'd be screaming this from every rooftop in DC. I don't know what wild expression of joy Marita would have demonstrated, but as she had been made of the same hardball matter as me, she was sitting soundlessly by my side. She smelled of crisp, just unfolded silk and looked as elegant as a haute couture cake: the sharp white of blouse against the marine suit, the shadow, just an imitation of a cleavage on the velvety bare skin of her collar. The car-radio chimed James Last's instrumental interpretation of I Don't Know How to Love Him. She was going to the airport, and he was staying... They were wretched and wealthy, tied by the murder that wasn't their first. It was so clichd and ludicrous - a cut scene from Bourne's Identity that was left on the editing room floor. With a note that she was a treacherous fake blonde who'd managed to climb to a high-ranker by jumping beds and bombs. And I wouldn't do for the main lead - a crippled ambitious faggot who grew up in a decrepit middle-American suburbia, yet inherited this ruthless, seditious streak from my Russian Cossak grandfather. As the music swelled, there was a tightening in my chest at the inability to play supporting villain for her Femme Nikita for another moment. 

"Alex," Marita said dramatically, as if on purpose, when I pulled over the Chrysler to the curb. Her left hand moved and perfect fingers touched my right gloved wrist that was resting on the gear-shift. Her pitbull's perseverance derived from her father' s backbone. She claimed the bigamous bastard was a pro-communist matador who'd perished in Franco**'s camp. Oh please, and my papa was Yurij Gagarin* __.

It freaked me out more than ever that she thought she knew everything about me, shrewd and sharp as she was. I have been in aversion of her quietly, privately for a very long time. Nonetheless, Marita's tacit appeal was to join her, to fly to Switzerland for now and lie low there for a month of luxury and gracious living, till all gets supa-quiet and supa-safe. I bet she had already a suite booked somewhere in Luzcerne, on the lakefront promenade. Maybe even for the two of us. I don't know why she still acted as if it mattered where I'd land. At least I didn't pretend I didn't care for her old-world elegance, or a hotel suit complemented by the most up-to-date amenities. She might jet to Guadelupe or whatever. 

Without visibly turning my head I saw the flat square of her pelvis, bracketed by hip-bones, the faint rise of her mons veneris. All essence of this woman I remember laid in the tender, mysterious inside of her knee, so divine it tasted like a texture of a lily. She was the fusion of novelty and risk, and I was the testing grounds for her ambition and seduction. She wasn't the first, but most probably will be my last foray into heterosexuality. And she sucked cock like a jumbo jet turbo fan. 

I wanted to cut her down, say something that would leave a tart taste in her mouth, to stress I was so over her. To remind her that she deserved every drop of black oil in her bloodstream. 

"Godspeed, babe," I muttered tersely and met the ice-pick of her look. The door's lock-buttons clicked meaningfully and she slipped out noiselessly, no luggage but a small purse with a plane ticket, a deposit safe key and a German passport. Marina Corras. She'd left the tracing thread just in case. That was utterly sensible. 

There was one more matter left. Over the river and through Alexandria. I needed a closure with a man who made infinite possibilities happen. I could damn afford it now. 

You see, I have been sending Mulder letters. It started as a mere prank. Brown coarse envelopes with notes that first I'd typed on my laptop, then didn't bother that he'd crack my handwriting as quickly as blowing his nose. Bored out of my wits spending days behind the camera-lens, earning my snap-shooter's/stalker's pay and hemorrhage early in my thirties. Spender's been going through another, always justified stage of withdrawing the spidery trust in his disfigured protg. I was dismissed from his personal secretary's position, but wasn't disqualified to a running target. So he put me back onto the tracking line of following necessary power-figures, picking crumbs of anything to topple them. Watching the eternal carousel of lechery, avarice and fraud and filming it with due care. 

When I was a boy, I wanted to be a detective. A short venture into the daily routine of the FBI only proved I wasn't destined to shine in Violent Crimes or lead any of the ICUs. Creating the Junior Agent Krycek and acting as a naive, ardent, wet-behind-the-ears blue-flamer was a challenge in itself. It was an artistic endeavor, after two years in a boot camp and mandatory participation in military actions in the Gulf, even though my tasks were mainly limited to observation and reporting, not scrubbing sand off my ass and gulping poisonous gases. 

A shocking discovery: Agent's life was such a dreary morass! I had no patience for jotting innumerable reports, had a big problem obeying directives and had absolutely _no_ respect for official procedure or officers of the law. If there wasn't the Record Book and the Protocols, Mulder would have offered to introduce some because it gave him adrenaline rush to breach them. I don't know how Mulder coped with the rest of bureaucratic bog-trotting without a good get-off on the side. Apparently he didn't, or he wouldn't behave so wound up or acting such a cracking bore most of the times, despite all his sharp suits and sly wit. When the shit hit the fan, I found some relief that I didn't have to pretend any more that Mulder's means of moving towards the greater good would have taken me anywhere. 

I get to wear my hair as I like it and never put a tie around my neck over the last five years. These are the few signing bonuses you get by becoming a double agent. Yet I found bracing entertainment to indulge my childhood dream. What I saw happening in suburbia or in affluent quarters could have made me a very rich man if I sold the stuff to Cheaters TV. I couldn't stop wondering why no one seemed to care to draw the curtains in the country where houses stand wall to wall, window to window. Pool-cleaners pissing into swimming pool and people taking a skinny dip afterwards. Men dressing like women, women dressing like ponies or dogs and dogs being blow-dried, dyed and dressed up in pearls. A student fucking her piano teacher who could be her granddad. Beefy black gardener fucking the WASP father of the house while the pretty wife and two kiddies who looked like the ToysRUs poster-bunch were shepherded to school. And these are just tame notes. 

I respected everyone's right to privacy because I was often denied one. But I perceived more: a kid riding a bicycle to the house and never seen him leaving. A description in the police chronicles of a 9 year old kid missing, dressed in a checkered cap and with Scooby Doo on his lunchbox. A prostitute found strangled with her middle fingers cut off, and the girl in a Marilyn white wig that I saw passing by the 7th mile, getting into the green minivan. 

I had no one else to forward what my head was processing. I tried to imagine what face Mulder must have worn when he had opened the first envelope. Someone cared that his solvency rate went up. Overall I've sent him fourteen newspaper clippings with my notes, hints and locations over 10 months. With a few I acted on nothing but a hunch, relying on his fanatical persistence to _help_ whomever. For fun I added some paranormal jumble, but Mulder must have binned them right-away because he had _never_ went to the location of faux UFO sightings I indicated. I took care to trace the development for cases based on the clues I'd thrown his way. Five of the eight cases he'd forwarded to Violent Crimes have been solved. Two were Domestics. The kid with the Scooby lunchbox decided to join the wandering circus and was found in three weeks, through the nationwide search. 

"Meet me like a man", was the first message from Mulder I received. A na?ve appeal to my self-worth, it was so typically Mulder's noble challenge, so atypical when it came to treating me. It must have been driving him nuts - that his informer wasn't an anonymous phantom. No duct-tape crosses on the windows, sneaking in the parking basements, watching his own shadow - all the attributes that made hunting the Truth so exciting. He knew I was sitting somewhere, cogent proof I was alive, and that I was watching him, too. 

The skillfully planted bug in Skinner's office informed me when he packed up and went out of the city, thus procuring a safe passage to his mailbox. During my last visit there was my own empty envelope sticking out invitingly out of Mulder's mailbox. Scribbled in his manic scrawl, it declared: "Sucking up to me with letters, tovarisch?" Mulder's bait betrayed his frustration. A) he addressed me directly. B) he asked a question. C) I was now _tovarisch_. So the mind-wipe wasn't so thorough? 

Of course I never answered. I was the ratty princeling of runaround. And if I went, what would that change? I was bound, he was restricted. 

I wondered if he gave me a second thought when the letters stopped coming in March. 

11.37 pm. The lights on the 4th floor went off. Mulder is alone, so I must be safe from Scully dropping by for a late-night see-off. I had been sitting in the car for about an hour, gun on my lap and hands on the wheel. Common sense goes ten rounds with covetousness out of control. No nano-injected Skinner to cover my ass. But I wasn't going on a military operation. And I _must_ be unarmed if I want to get anywhere. Part of the mind-fuck. Moreover, Mulder had proved that he can't shoot me in the back. That night I practically wet my pants making those five steps to the exit. 

When I kissed him then, it was knavish. I really didn't have anything to back it up with. It was just desperation, manipulation, survival motives. I didn't love him, it wasn't a crush and I even wasn't primitively, uncontrollably in lust. 

I didn't even know for sure if Mulder had ever fucked or sucked anyone. The Consortium had a dossier on its members and their families to the seventh keen. If you were alive, they'd have _something_ on your sexual practices. I didn't make a secret I preferred bum-action since they kicked me out from college. If I kept silent and fucked on the side, I'd give them more reigns if they exposed me later. Mulder was considered a non compos mentis, thus a wild card. Whatever he'd been practicing before he had enlisted the FBI, was inaccessible to me and I couldn't hack through without inviting a "shit-storm thy name is CGB". I speculated on crumbs: how Mulder would loosen his tie when I seated my cheeky ass on the corner of his desk and why on Earth he didn't accompany me to that be-damned WC in Hong Kong. I heard Bill Mulder grumbling disparagingly, voice scratchy on an old dictaphone tape: "...His perpetual zeal to explore is nothing but fear of routine, a mental misbalance. He wastes his brains hunting chimeras. Vanity, lack of moral fiber and taste for physical perversions he's inherited from his mother..." Pa Mulder was inordinately fond his first-born, I could tell at once... 

At one time senator's Richard Matheson's palsy-walsy association with the Golden Boy of the Department was the talk of the Capitol Hill's parlors. Bill Mulder minded so much that his misbehaving offspring was table hopping with the cream of the society that they hadn't talked to each other for more than a year. Yet Mulder's boss, behaviorism's trail-blazer Patterson only supported his student gaining positive publicity and buddying up with the high-rankers. Maybe it wasn't only in the public that the richie Rich was beating the promising Agent's time. The senator's dossier was a thick one I read thoroughly: a good-looking early-graying man only ten years older than Mulder, a notorious bugger of fey-boys with the considerate wife who'd married his bank account and secured herself a branch on his genealogical tree. Even though anyone older than 22 was safe in his vicinity, I wouldn't underestimate the senator's taste in men. Mulder, the pesky colt as he appeared, could have been a challenge. Add up that Matheson had made generous investments into medical research of several projects, offering testing grounds for the Syndicate's possibly alien-originated viruses. Thinking of Mulder being involved with Matheson for expedience mortified me. Good boys don't bend over, even to take a good peep under Truth's skirts. 

This was bad. I idealized him. Because without pink glasses, stubborn and selfish and single-minded to a fault, Mulder was a bastard with a category of his own. But he had in him some hard bright core of purpose and integrity that I could see more and more clearly. And he was bizarrely, charismatically attractive. 

I fantasized about him too much for my own good. I didn't like my lays covered with body hair and grime of Walt Whitman's factory athletes. Then lovemaking in the middle of the desert, with the sky above and a mirage lying in wait? It's all bat-shit. Better summon the bitter, sharp smell of nervy sweat in the dirty cell. Mulder, pants around his knees in the dim dusty nook, looking up at with eyes that turn chestnut when he is speechless with rage. Fucking not because he _wants_ it, but because some third person _depends_ on it. His Red. I would _never_ feel the impossible heat (both literal and metaphoric) inside him, the impossible wish of making him come with both hands, one within and one without... The inability to perform this particular fantasy on anyone _else_ any more, if not Mulder, would fuel my desire to picture the spent, dripping wreckage of his long restrained limbs on stems of chromic spread-bars. My spilled martini, running down his shoulders. I even had fantasies I had difficulties to rationalize, but my dick didn't. Self-harming, blood-sport, corporal modifications. And yet the best one involved me and Mulder, locked together for a day in the same room. And maybe a knife. 

Reliving another of my twisted whimsies, I wanted to touch his circumcision scar - the first sign that life was a cruel unconcerned bitch the little witless screaming Mulder-boy had been given before I received the first scratch on my baby-knee. One of the few places where I still remained unmarked. The thought of his cock, its talcum silky head in my fist - was my undoing. The fact that he _could_ be hard for me, that he might have been thinking of me in the past when we were thrown together. It was impossible to spend half a day on a plane or in the field with a guy and not have noticed him fighting an erection or two. Either it was me, or the vibrations of riding in the car seemed especially conductive. 

I _was_ seriously disturbed. I was developing hots for the man who was my object of surveillance. Who would probably end up like my target. Nota bene: bonding with your targets as sure as hell will end you becoming one. And now I was free to feel him up. Finita la comedia. __ __

This morning Mulder's attempt to strike me was half-hearted at best. His weak struggle in the arms of one surly AD was no more than paying lip service to the others in the room. The tension, when Mulder last saw me enter his office, was rehearsed. The small things told me he was touched and bewildered. He had banished Scully from his proximity for the long hours of conferring and wouldn't shrug away when our elbows touched. Our pencils gravitated together even if we stood opposite each other, marking the maps. Mulder sipping his Coke through a straw this afternoon was something that made me appreciate the unusually slack cut of my pantsuits in the front. I've lost weight, but I couldn't eat that fried rice. Instead of white grains I saw maggots feeding on the dead mutt one of those guards had thrown over the fence of my cell. I was treated as an unclean piece of white trash. Unclean was untouchable. That's how I've survived. 

The elegantly looking decadence of pool-honed flesh he was, Mulder didn't look like he'd been starved too. He touched his temple one time too many, as if developing a migraine that escalated as the hours of pouring over the plan. Scully was giving him quick slicing glances, as if checking on a patient. I wondered if his sides were scarred after years of such eye-treatment. 

Just once let me make the choice that I would not regret. The bold choice in my ramshackle life. This is the week of tying up loose ends. A dangerous, feisty feeling was filling me like a well shaken champagne bottle. The pull of gravity as I rose four stories into the air rushed the blood to the center of my body. 42 was the age a blind, withered woman in Kazakhstan, covered with coin-necklaces of four generations had predicted I'd live to. 7 years without Spender were left. 

end part 1 

* * *

  * \- (Latin) in the beginning __General Franco (died in 1975) was the head of military dictature in Spain. __* papa - father. Yurij Gagarin was the world's first cosmonaut, who'd died mysteriously in a plane-crash in 1968, aged 34. He was a very charismatic, handsome man. __ __the comedy is over. (Ital.)



part 2/2  
The Earth's orbit must have shifted - I _knocked_ on Mulder's door. Then I waited. Should I knock _again_? Well, I could always let myself in and face the consequences. A scuffling noise stopped me - he must be padding on his little bare feet to the door. A pause. Mulder must be looking through the peephole. I stepped aside so that he doesn't see me - so that he _knows_ it's me. I'm acting so predictable that he must be destabilized to decide unlock the door without grabbing _his_ gun. 

Mulder opened the door. His hair was standing up like a startled tomcat's. He looked sleepy, but in a bad way - when you're sleepy and can't fall asleep, roiling in bed till you want to stand up and shoot yourself in the head. I felt sheepish. I still wore the charcoal Hugo Boss suit of the morning meeting. He wore plaid pajama bottoms, the uncoiling disturbance of his dick artfully concealed by an untucked white T-shirt. He held both the door and the jamb, leaned his fine high cheek bone against his forearm and studied me thoughtfully, gravely. Maybe he took a funny-mushroom to make packing more fun? But his lack of reaction worked: the score was 1/1 - in the mind-fuck game. 

He wasn't doped. I deliberately overlooked a small move and my shirt was in a bunch as Mulder grabbed me. 

"Neighbors," I managed to mutter. Didn't want anyone to witness our farewell embraces. He silently pulled me in and propelled me forward, through the hall while he locked the door. It felt like home, the unchanging bachelor's charm that was Mulder's den. 

The living room was dark, but a lamp in the bedroom was on. It drew me like a moth to a streetlight, but I made myself stay rooted at the living room wall, facing the toothless gape of the doorway to his neglected kitchen. If it was my apartment, I'd have opened the window wider. I had annoying difficulties keeping my cool demeanor after the month in the scorching Tunisian sun. Fuck the acclimatization, I would lose focus when there was not enough air in the room. Blood pressure jumped too. My first bitter cigarette trembled between my fingers, as we were grilled like weenies in the sticky plastic chairs in Tunis airport. Marita held the lighter for me and her bright eyes were almost translucent, colorless as she squinted against the sun and the flame. All the hours of flight I slept as if head-stunned. Didn't even wake up for lunch. 

The air smelt of spice. There was an empty pizza box on the couch, and two unwashed coffee cups on the table. So, someone _did_ drop by before me? Didn't smell like Scully. Orange blossom and granite convictions. Whoever he or she was, Mulder didn't encourage them to stay. 

I've been trying to figure out his couch habit. One stupid silly reason was that Mulder found the bed too lonely. It reminded him that in beds people used to have sex. I nearly snorted at this - more snotty argument was hard to find. Coming from a man who himself last had sex in a bed about a year ago. More likely a monk like Mulder relinquished physical comforts in favor of the metaphysical. 

One of my hobbies was guessing Mulder's opening lines. 

"You dare to show up just like this?" This one was trite. What does he thinks he lives in - a mausoleum with a _no trespassing_ sign? 

"Was passing by". 

"Alone?" I arched my brow. /What, you think you can handle two at once?/ 

"Where's Marita?" Now, that one I didn't see coming. Mulder sounded curious, hands crossed on his chest, standing within quick grabbing-punching distance opposite me. Bad location, pal - if I jump _on_ him, he'd land directly on the glass coffee table. 

"She must be enjoying the standard comforts of SwissAir now". /Et tu, Mulder? Were you listed in her Boy of the Month Calendar?/ When she saw one tall brunette piece of hunky ass with good eyes, it would send little ships sailing between her legs. She's got taste. A side-note: she wants them to run for 3 rounds without a piss-pause. Her estimate for male staying power was unnaturally overestimated. 

But Mulder's immediate drop of the topic signaled this wasn't significant. 

"And you've got an addendum? _More_ classified information on Spender's plans?" He made it sound like it was the only reason that kept him from kicking me out. Mulder's hands relocated to his sides, he inclined a little forward. Without the Armani armor he didn't look imposing, but the home garb didn't diminish his commanding attitude. 

"We don't need to cancel tickets and set new rules?" 

"I play by nobody's rules but my own," I said, like a mysterious stranger in one of those spaghetti westerns that my American granddad used to watch. 

"Krycek, are you all right?" Mulder demanded, sarcastically. /Come feel my forehead, pretty/, I bit back the cheer. Damn, I should stop this distracting inner monologue. 

"He's dead". 

"Who's he?" Funny, Mulder's voice was low, like a co-conspirator's. 

If I told him "papa Spender", I'd have earned a kidney-punch much earlier than I planned. 

"Spender." 

"You killed him?" Mulder frowned. Apparently even if I assassinated Pinochet or Saddam this wouldn't have justified me. /How about telling you who first had my ass on top of that, sweet-pie?/ 

"He was bad for a while. The cancer's finally eaten him". His frown didn't smoothen. My obfuscation frustrated him, as it always did. Mulder, like me, didn't believe in coincidences or natural deaths of power magnates. 

I sighed artfully, imperceptibly with relief that Mulder lost interest in the Stinker's death as quickly as in Marita's traveling plans. He stood silent, initiating the staring contest. I pretended to consider my leave, then dropped my eyes, dragging them all over his body, drinking him in. I was glad like a knickers-less girl on a soft-core shoot that my shirt had three buttons undone. It wasn't the kind of thing he used to seeing me in. I don't know what Mulder felt coming off me, but I could perceive how wired he was. 

As if having heard my thoughts, Mulder looked at me sharply, warily. Then he birthed a question: 

"Why were you doing that?" He must have meant our epistolary romance. 

What did he expect? A page long explanation-cum-confession? That I wanted to prove I'm grown up enough to play with the Senior Agent? So unused to simple responses; he seemed taken aback when I admitted: 

"Because I could". And that was the absolute truth. Having digested and filed this one, Mulder's face again was impassive, like a Moon, but I was no fool to his games. If I was having an inner monologue with my alter ego, he must have been battling a whole multi-vocal chorus of them. I would bet my battered ass he was readying the array of questions. But any question about the past he'd ask would bring a cascade of others and Mulder wouldn't be able to tolerate the answers, despite his adult composure. 

His question came with the first clap of thunder outside. 

"Is there really a ship?" 

"Yes". 

"Is it going to take me?" 

I shrug - how the hell do I know? 

"Will I come back?" What am I - a palm reader on his payroll? Mulder had known what a flawed plan it was that we'd set into action, had known that there would be immeasurable losses. 

I shrugged again. My non-verbal responses began to irritate him. 

"Did you come here to hold me back?" That would be like trying to stop the tides. I shook my head. 

Mulder eyed my in angry puzzlement. I was _really_ getting into his system. 

"You're not...coming with me," he craftily managed to balance the tone of his voice between negation and the question. It reminded me of that flick...Saving Private someone. Mulder was typecast for black and white heroes of the propaganda flicks of the 40s. Russian, American - didn't change his core: he would have been truly happy, to die with his adversary. Truly. Perfectly. 

But no. No. 

My heart panged heavily. I wavered for a moment. I could do _something_. To make a move, stun him and tie him up with whatever I can find. Call Scully and tell her to give him a muscle relaxant. Plain shout out objection: neither one of us is going anywhere at all. I am a bigger coward than I thought myself to be. 

"If they take you, you're doomed". I said bleakly instead. "Destiny's a real bitch". 

I doubt Mulder paid much attention. He knew. He saw their breeding grounds. Sifted the ashes of cadavers through his pianist's fingers. I paid a five-fingered pound of flesh for his vaccination, but this wouldn't save his body to be hurt in seventy six unimaginable ways. 

Mulder looked like he was studying something inside himself. At least he seemed to consider my useless warning. 

"I can't let fear hold me back from what I must know," he finally said, simply. 

Even as wound up as I was, I was able to get a small inkling of how profound a statement this was, instead of passing it over the way I usually did with his wisdoms, at least until later. But I wasn't here to wax philosophy with Mulder. 

"Can I take your stroke-vids when you're gone?" I've rehearsed this. A verbis ad verbera - from words to blows. If we were knights galloping along the rows of yelling spectators, he'd bear this banderol on diamond and blanch quarters of his wooden shield. Mine? Raptus regaliter - Royally screwed. Oh wait, that was then. Since today: Magister Mundi sum! - I am the Master of the Universe! I once had to keep myself warm burning tattered schoolbooks in a decrepit shack. Read some o them just to kill the dragging time. 

It was a gut-shot to provoke him. A risky one. Mulder _knew_ he was on surveillance now and then, and I _knew_ what had happened to a poor camera-man who happened to be above when Mulder's got his berserk mode on. But it simplified the situation if I reminded him that he had very few secrets that were unknown to me. 

Oh, yeah, Mulder. Been mucho bored recently, I can _feel_ that. Want to look at my bruises and know you had me, any way you had the guts to take me? Sure thing. I've been bruised for many a less noble cause. Only this time I'm not playing. And it felt like Mulder's been waiting all these years for me to counter. 

He went after me like he needed to live. We wiped the walls and cleaned off the debris on his coffee table, making a honorary round of customary push-and-shove. My foot caught in his Nike sneakers and losing my balance gave Mulder an advantage of grabbing my good hand and shoving me into the wall. 

A truly ass-puckering moment. His forearm lodged under on my Adam's apple. Maybe I'd bitten more than I can swallow. Mulder went for my throat often enough to mark him a strangler with potential. He used to drop his gun and I was of a heftier built, but his fingers and agile wrist made a first-rate garrote. What if the looney- destructive part of his decides to wipe me off like I did with Spender, so he'd leave this world without the threat of me becoming another Darth Vader. 

"What are you thinking _now_ , you ratassed two-faced motherfucking bastard!" Oh baby, I still think the scum-sucking invertebrate something was your best shot! He gave me just enough air to pant: 

"I'm a fool." I was so hot with anger and alarm that I'm fucked, that I felt sweat condensing over my upper lip. "That I'm destructive. I have..." I gulped while Mulder let me, "...I have poor instincts". 

So much self-criticism disrupted the spurious concentration on crushing my throat. 

"On top of that you`ve been abnormally presumptuous," Mulder drew his line, and backed away just the necessary two inches for me to take a deeper breath and deliver a cordial gut-blow with my club. He gasped sharply, and sagged, still surprised that I could move _that way_. When my knee connected with Mulder's jaw, it wasn't a strike that could have sent him spitting out his teeth, just a warning. I grabbed him by the neck - skin and fabric - and pushed him as far away as possible. It was Mulder's luck I aimed well and he hadn't hit the bedroom doorframe with the back of his head. He landed exactly in the doorway, with a thud. I remained at a safer distance, regaining my self-confidence and licking my split lip. 

Now, the prelude was over. I wrote my part of the libretto as I looked around... 

Mulder's backpack gaped empty on the floor at his couch. What are you packing when going to meet ET? Except a hard-on, eh Mulder? 

"Were you thinking about me, packing up?" 

After the first fury spent, Mulder looked alarmed, crouching at the bedroom door. As I spoke, his hands from his face dropped to his sides. He glared. I could feel the imprint of his indignation on my cheek as if he had slapped me. 

"You were." A brown envelope was under my shoe, the last one on which he allowed to express his fraternization. I stooped, picked it up with my club. His eyes took in my motions avidly, head cocked as demonstration of utter Mulder-interest. Their criminal contents were gone, but there were several more of them, in a stack, among the Sports Illustrated and GQs and Astronomy Magazines. They were all crumpled and frayed, as if Mulder decided to tear them to tatters, and in the last moment pulled them out of the trash-bin. How endearing... 

"I wasn't." He spat. 

It occurred to me in a lucid moment that was probably his plan, to force me into action by sheer stubbornness. Oh, when it came to passive-aggressive, he was good. It wasn't me who'd made him this way. 

"And you what...were what... dying on the inside for me all this time?" Mulder suddenly decided to drop the denial and enter the smartass contest. He assumed a vertical position again, and didn't move back or forward when I stepped over the rubbish on the floor and minimized the distance between us to a mere foot. 

There was a contemptuous smirk birthing in the corner of his springy mouth. With my back virtually to the wall, the only good way was forward. 

"Oh, I'm such a pussy to make the first move..." I muttered. I could hear the thump-thump of my agitation tap-dancing in my fingertips. 

It felt like putting my remaining hand into the boiling cauldron. I reached out, holding my eyes with his, and cupped the front of Mulder's pajamas where they _still_ bulged slightly. Oh yes, so appetizingly _troubled_ that I discerned the familiar pulse of blood. The emanation of heat, coupled with overall stuffiness made it harder to breath. And this beat the ecstasy after having pushing the old stinker down the stairs a million times. Both were spur-of-the-moment decisions. 

I thought he was going to back-hand me, but Mulder jumped and pushed me away with all his strength. He looked indignant and worried, and ...upset, still backing away. So hyper, that I fed on his nervous energy like rocket-fuel. My palm tingled remembering his hot flesh. 

"I expected a backhand," I said, wondering. I used to wonder if violence and sodomy always went hand-in-hand for Mulder. 

"Is it a must?" Mulder asked like a child. His face, criss-crossed with shadows, was serious and petulant. 

"I thought it _was_ , for you". Yeah, my father didn't slap me across the face with a wet towel and didn't belt my bare ass for a reason and without one. My penchant was neither genetically conceived, nor influenced by traumas of my upbringing. Blame my curiosity. Desire to get away with instant gratification. And yeah, I liked that guys got off on sucking my cock. 

"You're an idiot," he snapped. 

"Oh, am I?" I asked hopefully. I didn't believe we were having this conversation. I wasn't exactly overexcited, but jittering. And sweating. Ridiculously jacked up. "I thought I was your favorite whipping scapegoat-boy". 

"You are just trying to prove some point. There is another goal, isn't it?" Mulder said with conviction. He switched themes immediately when _he_ was supposed an answer. He resumed talking again in his unbearable, bossy and demanding Agent's voice. 

"Some things won't bear much scrutiny..." 

That earned me an indescribable, perplexed _eh?_ stare. Mulder's eyes were jasper in the almost dark room and I couldn't stop watching his little shifts and stirs. His movements were soundless, but restless, flowing like the rain that marbled the window-panes. 

Then, in the same manner he sent me the non-verbal signals in the morning, Mulder made a move to hold his hands up to his forehead as if I was giving him a major headache. 

"What the hell _else_ do you want me to do?" he said at last, and his voice was the unfamiliar mixture of anger and despair. I stood dumb, because my inner voice all off a sudden gone mute. Sex was just the purpose, but it didn't solve anything. But on the other hand / I _hated_ this expression/, maybe he couldn't get it up without talking and theatrics? 

Now if I'll lose some more of my teeth after this, I'm well-off enough to hire the best dentist. 

"What're you doing?" Mulder sounded amused as my fingers hooked in his waistband. 

"Giving you a little something to remember me by." 

"Believe me, there's no way I'll forget you, Krycek." Mulder hissed like a pierced hose. His mettle spiked again. 

"I'm flattered, tovarsich." I didn't move my hand further, but we stood, touching at the hips now. 

"It's not every day I'm groped like a truck stop waitress." But maybe if he was, he'd not act so uptight? 

"Maybe you're sublimating?" I always thought that Mulder was a woman in his previous life. May West. Nah, too feisty. Greta Garbo. Tochno!* 

By the resentful looks Mulder gave me he thought I didn't even finish secondary school. And this man accused me of false presumptions! 

"Or maybe... its my subjection. If you pick the magic word". 

Mulder made this face - like he was holding something behind his cheek, I could see his tongue stroking the inner lining. Damn, I wouldn't _believe_ he didn't know what it looked like - what he was doing. Yet, he was apparently intent on _not_ stepping back too, and so we remained nose-to-nose. 

Abruptly, he turned on his heels, and drifted to the bedroom. I followed him silently. I lost count on the score, even if it was in my benefit, it was the more unsettling. 

The bed was a spacious one, almost a Queen, but the mattress obviously had been changed. It was a little smaller than the bed-frame. The linen was blue, plain cotton, in disarray. One pillow was on the floor and Mulder kicked it out of the way half-heartedly. 

His suit of the day was on the laundry wrack, and there were CDs and some VHS tapes without covers on the floor. He's got shelves on the walls, why does he keep throwing things around? I watched my steps. 

Until he made a move. The stuffy room tilted. 

Mulder was removing his t-shirt, his _back_ to me! The big muscles in his back were shifting as he lifted his arm. The corrupt creature that I'd became, this was one of the sexiest things I've ever seen. And terrifying because I expected _anything_ , but this silent resignation. Insidiously, I must have tapped into some subconscious quirk. Unrealized fantasy. Like the night before the execution Mulder would switch what he called perversion for liberation. 

I stood there, knees touching Mulder's bed, in a kind of sound-proof daze. He was _in_ it, whatever made him decide pro. He threw the gray fabric over the table-lamp, the movement of his arm an arch of finality. I wanted the lights to go off, even if he was up to it. Instead the room was muted to deep shadows. The silence I was used to became unbearable, too _normal_. 

"So, then a death-row wish?" Weak, Alexei, this sounded damn weak. My mouth was dry, a memory-laden gritty taste of sand and screams. 

Mulder looked at me over his shoulder, apparently checking my reaction. Then turned around. I tried to keep my eyes on his face. He's got that kind of chest you want to map with your cheek and tongue. 

"And you who? A camp-whore on charity rounds?" His insults bounced off me like hail off the wind-shield. Mulder, they'd just let me out of a cage four days ago. You think I cared for your clichd humanitarian slur? But if I let this be unanswered Mulder would get wrong ideas about my extracurricular behavior. No _one_ talked to me like this and got away. 

"Did Matheson fuck you?" Non-sequitur, I fired my biggest cannon. Mulder, the perfectly schooled in self-control tin-soldier as he was, didn't react. Verbally. My insides turned and flopped like a dying salmon. Damn straight, not for nothing Spender told me I'd got _just the right kind of hunch_. There was that look in his eyes - if you know just where to touch him, his eyes will brighten spectacularly and then he'll abhor your very existence, when he knows you've seen what you already knew was there. Bozhe moi**, did it mean that something situated _above_ your dick was involved with that old bugger? I didn't have time to ponder on _father-figures_. 

"What're you tryin' t' do to me," Mulder suddenly marveled, more of an acknowledgement than a question. "Drive me crazy? Crazier?" he added, knowing my answer would likely point out he was already half-insane. 

"Just wanna know what you'd do if there was no tomorrow..." Now, this sounded like the Romantica-channel crap Marita liked to watch. But it was so easy to tell Mulder in his wavering, non-violent mood what was running through my mind. I lived in the lockbox of my head for too long. And in Tunis I've spent the whole month without uttering a single word. 

Mulder's lips pulled back, and I couldn't tell if he's snarling or smiling or just trying to get a decent breath. And then he was at me, he was _on_ me, and for a second I thought he _was_ going to kill me, but instead he was kissing me. And I could taste my blood again, maybe because we've both been bleeding inside ever since we laid eyes on each other. 

"And you?" 

I made out that his breath forming syllables was actually a question. I felt reeling, weightless, powerful. But I wasn't yet where I wanted to be, nope. What he was doing now - the quick lip-lock - was a repay for the Wiekamp peck. If Mulder considered he'd get off easy by returning this favor, he was not so brilliant a profiler at all. 

"I'd suck your cock," I mouthed against Mulder's teeth. And this time I was going to get it. 

Mulder let out a little sound of surprise when I grabbed his hip and pushed him down and back, fingers catching in the fabric, so that his partially bare ass was half-sitting on the bed, pajama bottoms bunched around his thighs. All my blood seemed to be shared between my two extremities: my head and my dick. 

Roughly I pushed Mulder's flailing hands backwards so he was propped up on them against the mattress , while I made a move to go down on him. 

Now _who_ had difficulties following directives? There he was up momentarily, his clutch on my good elbow, face against mine. Eyelash-length close. Every new guy's face is an unfamiliar topography. His chin was smooth to save shaving time in the morning, his square curved lips are slightly dry and there is an under-taste of blood. 

"You stop tr..." Mulder said, meaning _trying_ or _treating_ or _tricking_ , inviting an immediate shut-up action. I kissed him awkwardly expecting another violent veto, but hard, boldly maneuvering his head to the right angle. About five torturous seconds he resisted. Then Mulder's libido eventually conformed, his lips taking mine and immediately beginning the fight for who's giving and who' s taking. I felt scattered and alive with life, testing my luck to resist his supremacy. Mulder's hand went to grip me by the neck, pulling me off his wet-dream mouth, while I stood my grounds, gripping a handful of his spiked hair and not letting go. We must have been a pretty amorous sight. 

Mulder's palm was pawing, animal-friendly, through the short bristle on my nape. His grunt was a tone of discovery. 

"Want me?" 

Now, did he buy the copyright of this from Marita's fuck-talk? And the cunning bastard chose to stand with his back to the lamp. His face was a shaded blur. 

"What kind of a question is that?" Is he checking for the record? Or next he asks if I brought the engagement ring. I can make one from a shoe-lace, if it takes Mulder where I want him to end up. 

"An honest one." Hazel eyes an inch from mine. It only took a tiny shift of my head to press our foreheads together. My club provided some delicious pressure down there for him to rub against. Now tell me he didn't know what he was doing! My hand was then on his bare stomach, then slid down, feeling him up. A good, full handle sat in my fist as if molded in. 

Mulder's mouth descended on my ear, letting out a shaky angry breath, spitting out a wisp of my hair as I squeezed him. Practiced motions, I stroked him through the stretching fabric, kissing his rebellious neck, listening to his pulse rattle and pound, surprised that I wanted this much preliminary and that he was letting me. In fact I could almost get off sitting here, listening him pant and displaying his shameless frottage inclination. He was grappling with the back of my shirt pulling at it in all the wrong places and I was gravitating down, pushing him away, in discord of action and disorder of intent. 

Gravity won, Mulder dropped on the mattress and I on my knees, forcing him in my mouth with my hand on his hip. Mulder made a sound of anguish as I clamped down. After a few ragged, intense pushes against my epiglottis, he wasn't in control any more. Like a cord inside him snapped, his went lax, as if I was sipping out the rigidity of his loathing through a straw. I was feeling so safe that I let his uncontrollable hand fasten in my hair. He virtually held my head in his lap. 

Mulder lifted his other hand and put it on my shoulder, pulling me closer between the fork of his open thighs. More access, I nearly purred. He did exactly what I would if there was one horny as hell one-armed guy wiping his floor with his expensive knees. 

He felt so good I wanted to yell, feeling desperate, combustible, thinking about all the times in the past that I wanted to beat him, to maim him, to prove a ton of whole unimportant something. I didn't expect the dark despair rising, filling me like bitter liquor. He is not coming back for more of me. No-one would know we ever did this. The thought struck me suddenly with its misery and I felt my stomach sink at the realization. 

Jesus on a fence, at least we'd get laid before it all goes to hell. 

His slick, clear juices flowed freely, making him slide easily through my mouth and my hand when I wrapped it around his cock and slowly began to jack it up and down. Mulder didn't grab my head and press me forward, his hand slid under the loose collar of my shirt and started stroking my bicep in slow, erotic circles; restlessly it moved up to my shoulder and traced the muscles just under the skin. 

"BastardBastardBastard", Mulder kept chanting my middle name. And in this context with the hoarseness of arousal, it made my pelvis buck against his shin. The eternal contradiction was locked between the cursing mouth and caressing hands of this quixotic man, discovering there lived a creature in that shadow zone between the white and the black. And if only this could stop him, I'd spend the rest of the night on my knees, to keep him here. 

Mulder let out a low exclamation before his body went rigid and broke off half-word, his eyes snapping shut, teeth bared. I was gauging his waves of pleasure by the sound of his breath. His hands spasmed synchronically ...uncontrollably... as his pleasure escalated...and then...then... 

...then....nothing happened. 

Mulder made a gurgling sound in his throat, as if wanting to yell my last name and chocking on an _r_. The exclamation sign of his Grecian nose over the o-shaped mouth bemoaned the intolerable cruelty of orgasmus interruptus. 

The potency of experiencing him quickly drove all my usual domination fantasies from my brain. I haven't felt that ripple of desire spreading through my insides in years, the undulation of emptiness. Now, I was truly out of my mind... 

Mulder opened his eyes in a kind of vague way, like a guy with a head injury. I had half-a-second left before he gets himself together and punches my nose in. 

"Wanna fuck?" I squeezed tight his cock-head in my fist, practically feeling his cum stalled under the thin membrane of skin. There was nothing like holding a man who was so excited to screw your fist that he could barely control himself. 

Mulder fell onto me like a summer storm, my ribs complaining about his full weight. The fusion of his pale naked body on my solemn blackness made me think of killer whales. Mulder was prying my fingers off my belt as if I was resisting or as if frenzied, he could undo it faster. The suit-pants wouldn't go off before the shoes, and the shirt before the club. I almost snickered with the simple logics in it that Mulder seemed to have forgotten, collecting enough effort to toe off my loafers. The necessary wiggle of my hips Mulder interpreting as another sign of lust. He shifted obligingly, bringing that wonderful knee up to gently press against my balls... He must be smearing his precum over the front, but as the suit was Marita's gift, I might well put it through the shredder come tomorrow. 

Was it a narcissist's streak why he kept the lights on? Mulder could have been an erotic sculpture in marble, he was that white and that defined, the only touch of color the rosy blush of his erection. 

There was a moment in the eye of the storm when I lay motionless, for his overview, shirt open and the fly too, my heart galloping somewhere in between. Hastily unwrapped like a Christmas gift for the Adams family. I took refuge in pretending that everything was normal, that I often found myself _under_ Mulder on his bed, electrified by excitement of surrender. Cruelty of word or movement was inevitable between us, and he must have been studying me to find a weak point. I was battered merchandise, but either it was the deep tan or the dip of my stomach...or the fresh scar in my right side that deserved his touch and diverted his attention from the strap on my shoulder and across my chest. 

"Hurts?" I barely made out what he meant. 

"Yes. A lil'". This last one my regalia was received after an acute appendicitis that felled me after eating all the rotten North-African crap. I had to eat what I was given, in anticipation of what _could_ have been in store for me if Spender decided I haven't learnt my lesson. The cage was the safest place to stuff me in, while I threw myself at its walls in delirium. 

But the memory was detached enough that I didn't react with a post-traumatic drop of my hard-on, at least not in any sensationalistic way. 

And Mulder...just don't you dare to waste it now for whatever circuits in the funhouse of your mind. 

It dawned on me finally _why_ Mulder stopped suddenly. Not because he lost the boner, or because of my missing arm or blinded by my ethereal beauty. Ah, consensus. Or my part of the equation that would help Mulder to compartmentalize this. 

Sigh. "I want you. Yes." Tilting my head in and catching his mouth, holding it for a long instant in which just our lips are touching. I let him lead. The payback was toe-curling. The very tenderness and passion in his kisses were an undeniable insistence on his capitulation, beguiling his desire in spite of the myriad of issues never to be resolved. I held him with one arm, my morose, roughshod, demented equal. Tovarisch. We could have served a lifetime together. 

I repressed a sudden urge to groan, not wanting Mulder to have even the slightest idea of what I was going through. My tongue slipped momentarily against his throat. Mulder waited a longer interval before reciprocating, pulling at my pants and my prosthetic. 

The descant squeak of the bed accompanied the endless, glacial slowness as I got myself baby-naked. And _then_ was his trembling lust, his luscious mouth. He was groaning through his teeth, his body clamped to mine like a magnet. 

"You gonna regret all of this tomorrow?" Mulder's rapid, soft breath was in my ear. 

Maybe he was asking himself. _Most probably_ he was. What mattered that he was here and I was feeling him in all the places, could smell him in the hollow of my hand and that his entire body was ringed and haloed with the aroma of sweat and masculine sex. 

One finger under my chin pulled my head up, and I was lost in the sinister promises flickering in the depths of his ever-changing eyes. And then Mulder smiled, it was sensual and terrifying. His smile effervescent as if he looked ahead to the long summer days and nights that will never be. 

Regret _this_? My only answer and the lie of my lifetime was a yes. 

End 

* * *
    
    
    *       (rus) Exactly
    *       (rus) my God
    

  
 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Griva


End file.
